Second Chances
by Ms Q
Summary: Chapter 4.1 up! Will is brought back into the world of espionage.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer:** I, in no way, own any of the original characters or concepts of "Alias", though I claim all rights to the ones that I may create within this story. All others are property of J.J. Abrams and ABC. I am making no money from this story.

**Second Chances**

_Part One_

"Hey, Jonah can I have that final draw-up?"

Will sat at the drafting table in the contractor's trailer, rolls of plans scattered around him on the table and at his feet. Several paper coffee cups were piling up in the wastebasket beside him and there was a fresh one sitting on a nearby filing cabinet. "Man, do you have to have it _right_ now?" he asked not even turning toward the construction worker.

"Yeah, I do."

"No you don't," he said resolutely, still not turning to him. "Gimme until the end of the day, okay Mac?"

Mac scowled and rolled up his sleeves in frustration. He looked like he wanted to punch him but was holding himself back. He couldn't very well punch out his foreman and keep his job. "Jonah, you know we can't finish off the west wing until you finalize those plans."

Will finally turned around and looked at Mac with a weary expression. "Don't you think I know that?" Mac became suddenly quite when he saw Jonah's face. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and he appeared to have given up shaving again. "I will get these plans to you by the end of the work day. Isn't there some more things you can have the guys do in the north hall?"

"Yeah, Jonah. I—I'm sorry."

"It's okay, man. Just give me some space."

"You got it boss," and with that Mac left the trailer. Outside Will could hear him rallying the other construction workers, "_Alright, let's get to work! Steve, have those forms come in yet?"_

Will, or Jonah as he had come to be called since entering the Witness Protection Program, slumped over onto the drafting table. He'd been working incessantly on these plans but every time he'd finished the owners would call him up with _another_ change.

"_Jonah, I was thinking that it would be a great idea to switch the floor-to-ceiling window from the west wall to the north wall . . . "_

"_Jonah, about that parquet flooring, we were thinking that it might be good to switch to marble. You know the acoustics might have to be altered a little for that, but I'm sure you can handle it."_

"_Hey, do you think that you can still make all those changes by the same deadline? I'd really appreciate it, buddy."_

It wasn't like this job was any different from any of the others. There were always changes and there were always deadlines and they rarely complimented one another. It was a profession that required a lot of his time, but since the brief time he'd shared with Sydney a few months back Will had become a work-a-holic. Work consumed him and if that was what it took to keep her from his mind then that is what he'd do.

He was so tired though. So tired.

He sat back up again and reached for his coffee. He downed a large gulp like it was his life and then set it back down again before returning to the plans in front of him. But it was somewhere between the time that he picked up his ruler and pencil that his mind drifted off . . .

He and Sydney were in the Warsaw safe house sharing a bottle of Vodka. Sydney had laid her head in his lap where they were sprawled on the floor. Sydney passed the bottle up to him and cleared her throat.

"_Let's talk about you. A beautiful painter lives in your building and you haven't asked her out yet. Why?"  
_

_Will laughed nervously and took a swig from the bottle. Why had he even mentioned that to her? "Because Jonah's recovering from a post-traumatic dating syndrome after his last girlfriend dumped him by ramming a bayonet into his lungs. Let's go back to you. Okay, you and Vaughn's wife."_

"Yeah, I hate her. I mean I don't, she's nice..."

"You hate her."

She almost seemed reluctant to say it. "Yeah."

Will couldn't help it, he laughed. "It's okay."

"But not 'cause of her. It's just... I still love him."

"That sucks." His heart threatened to break. Not for himself, he already knew where her true feelings laid. He just hated seeing Sydney this way.

She sat up then and looked at him with watery eyes. "You know, Will, considering everything, I think I'm pretty normal. I'm emotional. I try to be honest, but I've never been a depressed person until now."  
  
"I get it." Oh, he understood all to well. His own shock at learning all those most dear to him were dead had made him suicidal for a time, but he knew his own situation paled in comparison to hers.  
  
"I mean, nothing has felt the same this year, and it's... It's not just Vaughn. It's you, and Francie." She began crying. "I don't know..."  
  
"What?" He touched her arm tenatively. 

_  
"I'm just alone," she said no longer able to hold back the stream of tears. Will reached for her and she for him._

_  
"Hey, it's okay." He just wanted to hold her until it didn't hurt anymore. _

_She began to kiss him._

_He felt like he should stop her, but his longing for her was too strong and so he held her closer and returned her kisses. _

"_Syd," he said huskily._

_Then he understood. He felt her hunger. Her hunger for someone to heal her. He wanted to be that someone. He had always wanted to be that someone._

"Oh, God. Syd, I love you," he said out loud into the emptiness of the trailer, once again coming out of his memories. He was shaking from the deepest parts of himself and could feel the sweat pouring down his brow. "I need to let you go." He stood up and began to pace the room.

"I need to let you go – but I just can't!"


	2. Part 2

**Second Chances** _Chapter Two_

Will kept his word and somehow managed to finish the plans for the west wing by the end of the workday. Mac had tentatively stuck his head into the trailer at five o'clock and Will simply handed the blueprints to him without a word. Mac didn't ask any questions and as soon as he left Will packed up his brief case and locked up the trailer for the night.

His truck somehow managed to take him home—He realized this as he pulled into a parking space in front of his apartment because he couldn't remember a single moment of the drive. It suddenly struck him that this feeling was becoming typical. How many times had he driven from one place to another and not have even remembered pausing at a stop light? For that matter, what had he even been thinking of during the drive? He didn't know for sure. Will climbed wearily out of his truck and lumbered up the stairs to his flat. _All I want to do is go to bed_, he thought to himself. His head pounded as he fumbled with the keys to his apartment. As the door swung open he heard the buzz of his answering machine as it picked up a call he had just missed.

"_Jonah," _It was a woman's voice, laughing nervously. _"This is Samantha—you know from upstairs? Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come to this party I'm having Saturday night. I just sold my first painting and I plan on celebrating! I would really love for you to come." _She laughed again in the same nervous way. _"Anyway, give me a call as soon as you can and let me know if you can make it. – Okay, bye!"_

Will groaned. It wasn't that he didn't like Samantha. She was smart. And attractive. Only, he just didn't want to think about her right now. He didn't want to think of any woman or anything. He just wanted to veg-out with a microwave dinner in front of the television for a while and then go to bed. His answering machine was flashing that he had one more message, though, and he absently pushed the replay button as he shuffled into the kitchen to get a beer. The first one was only a repeat of Samantha's party invitation and so he ignored it as it played, instead pulling out a beer from the fridge and then randomly picking out a TV dinner from the freezer. After a beep from the machine the next message began to play as he stuck his mystery dinner into the microwave.

"_Mr. Tippin."_

Will froze with his hand on the microwave pad.

There was a pause and then the British voice continued. _"Mr. Tippin, I believe you know who this is."_

The sound of that arrogant British voice made his heart catch in his throat.

"_There is little time and since I am speaking to your machine instead of you I will bypass the small talk. There is something that I need your assistance with. More pointedly, I have a mission for you." _There was a scream in the background. _"That was Sydney's voice you just heard. She is a strong woman, a good agent, but some things even **she** cannot handle." _Beer sloshed onto the counter and poured to the floor as Will carelessly cast the bottle aside and ran to the machine._ "Which is why I need you to call me as soon as you receive this message." _There was a tearful whimpering in the background that he couldn't mistake as coming from anyone other than Sydney.

"_Good bye, Mr. Tippin."_

The answering machine beeped and then went silent.


	3. Part 3

Second Chances

Chapter Three

Will swore. "How am I supposed to call you if you don't leave a number?" The answering machine was the only substitute for Sark that he had at the moment and so he pushed it into the wall, but that just caused it to replay the messages. Samantha's voice now grated against his ears and he roughly yanked the cord out of the wall to silence it.

Will began pacing back and forth trying to think but all he could focus on was ripping Sark's cocky British head from his shoulders. After a few minutes of this he forced himself to rationalize: Before he could find Sydney – and kill Sark – he first needed to call him back. And in order to do that he needed to find the number that he had called from. He knew 69 was out of the question so he started cycling through his other options.

I could trace the call . . . No, what would I tell the operator? – I could call my case manager. No . . . Jack Bristow—Jack Bristow. 

"Jack Bristow."

Will pulled out the phone book from underneath the telephone and quickly flipped to the government listings. He found the number for the Madison CIA office. Reaching for the phone he began to dial the number but stopped before he pressed the last digit. "If Sark found my number then he can probably monitor my calls." He put the phone back on the hook and grabbed his keys. "I need to make the call from somewhere else."

Will knew he was being followed. That was something he had learned from Jack, actually. If a vehicle mimics your turns more than three times, much like the non-descript black sedan behind him was doing now, the chances were good that the vehicle was _tailing_ you. On the first contact Will had ever had with the man, knowing his true identity, Jack had run through the procedure for solving this problem. –- All one needed to do was confuse the person tailing you by doubling back every few blocks and making your turns as sudden and unpredictable as possible. This was simple enough in L.A. --- Obviously, Jack had never counted on being caught in Wisconsin. This was America's Dairy Land but it had never boasted any metropolis. The town where Will lived was no exception to this. It was little more than and industrial municipality and place for truckers to refuel and farmers to but their supplies.

Will's knuckles whitened as he gripped his steering wheel in frustration. His difficulty in shaking the tailer had begun to lead him out of town. He hadn't wanted to do this but he had little choice; there was no where else to go. He had already driven through the small suburbs and was now passing by the bent trailer parks. Soon he'd be in open farm country with no where to hide.

That's when he glanced at his glove compartment. His last resort; his gun was in there. He hadn't ever wanted to use it but it was clear that he might have no other option. As he drove past the last rusty trailer he glanced again into his rear view mirror. His eyes widened in shock and he no longer hesitated. He slammed his fist against the dash and the glove compartment door fell opened. He grabbed the loaded gun.

"Where the hell did she come from?" There was now a woman in the back seat of the sedan and she was loading what looked like a very large gun. The sedan put on speed and threatened to tap the bumper of his truck. But as it did the driver's face became clearer. Will could practically see the gleam of the man's straight white teeth and the arch of his smug eyebrows.

Before he could even bite off a curse the glass from his rear window rained down on him as the woman began to shoot at the truck. Will swerved and lost control as one of his tires was blown. As he careened into a muddy ditch he managed to get one shot off which blew Sark's window out and forced him off the road as well.

Smoke rose from both vehicles as Sark raised his bleeding head from the steering wheel. Bits of glass cascaded down his shoulders as he shook himself, checking for further injuries.

"Are you all right, darling?" he asked as the woman began to stir from where she landed in the floorboard.

"I'm fine–darling," she replied testily, shaking the glass from her own shoulders and blonde hair. "Couldn't you have had better control over the car?"

"Excuse my concern, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart. Never mind, let's just see to Tippin."

Sark smirked as he kicked the door open. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

Will's ears were ringing and his vision was blurred as he picked himself up off the seat. He winced as he moved his right shoulder. He could feel that it had been dislocated from the socket. He swore as he straightened himself, as much as his slightly tipped over truck would allow. For a moment he struggled to remember what had happened until his door was roughly opened. Then he remembered and reached for his gun but it was pulled from his grasp by a hand coming through his blown out rear window.

"You won't be needing that Mr. Tippin. We aren't here to kill you."

"What do you call what you just did, you British bastard?"

Sark's grin changed to an expression of anger and he pulled Will with surprising strength out of the truck and shoved him against the cab. He felt the cold barrel of what he imagined was his own gun pressed against his neck. It was the woman and she breathed down his neck.

"We _haven't_ come to kill you but that can certainly be arranged," she said pressing the barrel more firmly against his windpipe.

"I don't believe you." He coughed against the strain on his throat. "You need me for something."

"No Mr. Tippin," said Sark, his congenial attitude returning, "You were merely our first choice. We could just as easily use someone else close to Sydney." Thinking that Will had been sufficiently intimidated he nodded to the woman who let off of Will's neck.

Will drew in a few ragged breaths. "Sydney? Is she still alive?"

"Yes, she's still alive. For the moment." Sark turned to his associate. "She's holding up remarkably well, wouldn't you say?"

"What do you _want_ from me? If you haven't noticed I'm not much of a spy. I don't see how I can go on any mission for you."

The woman jumped from the truck bed then and pulled out a mobile phone from her pocket. "We want you to make that phone call to Jack Bristow." She saw the look of disbelief on his face. "What? You didn't know that we've had your apartment bugged?" This woman seemed just as full of herself as Sark.

"I'm sorry that you'll have to forego Samantha's party this weekend," Sark continued, "but there was no reason for you to break your answering machine. Tsk. Tsk."

The cell phone was shoved into his hands. "We've programmed his personal mobile number in there. Just hold down the number one."

"Wait," Will interrupted. "Why do you want me to call Jack Bristow?"

"Because you'll be needing Agent Bristow's help. We quite agree with you—you are no spy."

"What do you want me to say to him?"

"Tell him that we've contacted you," the woman said.

"Who are you?" he asked looking cautiously at her.

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "Tell Agent Bristow that we have his daughter and that if he expects her to live she will need The Antidote with in forty-eight hours. He will know what you are talking about."

Overhead Will heard the chopping of a helicopter. Sark buttoned his blazer as a ladder was let down from the cockpit. "Now if you'll excuse us. Our transportation has just arrived." With that Sark and the woman grabbed onto the ladder and were lifted away.

For a moment Will stood there watching them leave with the cell phone clenched in his hand. At a loss for what else to do he finally held down the number one and raised the phone to his ear.

"Jack Bristow here."

"Jack . . . Jack, its Will Tippin."


	4. Part 4

Second Chances 

Part 4

"How did you get this number?" Agent Jack Bristow asked monotonically.

"Sark gave it to me, but listen – "

Jack's voice suddenly gained some animation. "From Sark!"

"No! Mr. Bristow, you've got to listen to me!"

Will was walking alongside the nearly abandoned farm road where Sark and his rather intimidating female associate had left him. The sun was all but down now and there was a chill in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn't have a coat or a car so he was walking back toward town.

"So you didn't get the number from Sark?" It seemed Jack had regained control over his typical candor, but Will knew it was only thinly veiled anger.

"Listen!" Will yelled, no longer able to remain polite. "I was just run off the road and nearly had my head blown off! Now you're going to listen to me or Sydney stands a very good chance of dying in forty-eight hours!"

There was a pregnant pause and then Jack replied, "I'm listening."

Jack put the cell phone back into the pocket of his suit jacket and walked toward Director Dixon's office as if nothing significant had happened. But if someone had possessed the audacity and guts to look him directly in the eyes they would have seen fear. Any other outward appearances would betray nothing of his alarm—but inside his heart was pounding; it threatened to break; it threatened to stop all at the same time.

"Dixon, I need to talk to you."

Marcus Dixon looked up from his desk; his expression showed only mild surprise at Jack's interruption. He knew that was how the man operated and had long ago accepted it. "What can I do for you Jack?"

"Has Sydney reported in the last six hours?"

"No, Jack. She isn't due to report again until she is about to board the plane back from Spain. Why, are you worried? You know it was only an in-and-out reconnaissance mission?"

Jack took a cursory glance around Dixon's office, also taking in the hall outside. Once he was sure there was no one within earshot he continued.

"I wasn't worried either until ten minutes ago," he said. "I just received a call from Will Tippin and it would seem that he has once again been called out of the Witness Protection Program to help Sydney. Only it wasn't Sydney who contacted him."

Marcus wiped his hand over his face to cover a sigh of disbelief. "Who contacted him and why?"

"Sark. He wants the Rambaldi Antidote."

Dixon slammed his hand down onto the desk. "Have Will brought back here to the Rotunda."

"I've already made the order."


	5. Part 4 Point 1

**A/N:** I had intended to make this chapter part of the previous one, but somehow it wasn't on my back up. I have no idea why. So instead of editing what I already posted I decided to call this one _Part 4.1._

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

**Second Chances**

_Part 4.1_

Will was escorted into the Operations Headquarters three hours later, and as he looked around he was nearly overcome by a profoundly surreal moment. Ever since he'd been _accidentally_ introduced into (He never kidded himself though. It was _his_ fault.) Sydney's world he'd adopted an odd mantra: "_This isn't happening. This can't be real_." Now, as he stood in the center of the office that he never thought he'd be seeing again he was forced to re-define that mantra.

_What am I doing here? I'm not a spy. I'm _**not**.

Thankfully, he wasn't left to himself for too long. An aide came up beside him and told him to follow her, that "they" were ready to meet with him now. He had been hoping that Jack would meet him, but instead he was lead down a hallway off the main corridor. It wound and intersected with several different halls as he followed behind the aide and it occurred to him that maybe he should be worried. He'd never been this deep into Headquarters before. Sydney had mentioned that "debriefings" often weren't pleasant experiences but she had never gone into detail.

Just when Will was about to ask the aide where they were going she stopped in front of a door. She unlocked the door and then punched a series of numbers into a keypad before opening it. "Right in here, Mr. Tippin," she said. Will paused trying to decide whether or not he should do as she said, so the woman added, "Director Dixon and Agent Bristow will join you shortly. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?"

Will laughed, the tension finally broken, "No. Thanks." She smiled and motioned for him to come in and sit down.

Inside, a long table and chairs that seemed better fit in a somewhat larger space dominated the dimly lit room. He couldn't understand why a seemingly innocuous room such as this required more than a regular lock. _Because this is the CIA_, he thought. And he thought that was as good a reason as any. He didn't want to think of the other options.

"Take a seat, Will." Jacks voice came from behind Will from where he stood in the doorway.  
  
But Will stood firmly at the door. "We don't have time for this," he said, growing frustrated now that he was no longer worried about being 'debriefed'. "We have less than two days to find Sydney before I don't know what happens."  
  
"Sit down, Mr. Tippin, don't you think I know that!"  
  
Will sat down. As he did, the door opened again and Dixon walked in, taking the seat across from him.  
  
"Will, thank you for coming to us." Dixon began, motioning for Jack to sit down as well.  
  
"There wasn't anything else for me to do. He just handed me this phone and flew away."  
  
Something passed behind Dixon's eyes, "But there was someone else with him."  
  
"Yeah, a blonde woman. British. Why?"  
  
"Because you are the first person to have seen Lauren Reed for the past six months."  
  
"Wait a minute, Lauren Reed? Vaughn's wife?"  
  
Jack cleared his throat, "Yes, it would seem that she was just as duplicitous toward him as Sydney's mother had been toward me. She's been working as a spy for the Covenant for nearly two years, passing off information, all the while pretending to be a loving wife and civil servant."  
  
"Six months ago she was discovered by Agent Vaughn," Dixon continued. "She disappeared shortly after that and has been number three on our most wanted list ever since."  
  
"Well, as of three hours ago she was in Wisconsin with Sark," Will said, adding more credence to his sense of the surrealness of the situation. He fidgeted in the chair. "So what are we going to do? What's the plan?"  
  
Director Dixon gave him an almost piteous look. "That is why we've brought you here, Will. Langley's official position, as it always has been, is to never negotiate with terrorists. And they will in no way allow us to hand over anything concerning Rambaldi to the Covenant. They want us to disavow all knowledge of Sydney's actions."  
  
Will leapt to his feet. "So, you're not gonna do anything?" He turned to Jack, "Jack, it's your daughter! You aren't going to let her die are you?"  
  
"Of course I'm not," Jack said angrily. "Now if you would just hold off on the outbursts we would be able to explain."  
  
Will sat down again, 'Well then explain."  
  
Jack gave him a look of warning but continued. "Langley's official order is to disavow and we will have to abide by those orders or be shut down--but you don't."  
  
"What do you mean?" he answered, incredulously.  
  
"What he means is that our official position is to do nothing. And you, Mr. Tippin, will walk out of these headquarters a very angry man." A smile passed ever so briefly across Dixon's face. "By tomorrow morning there will have been a theft in the Rambaldi vault."  
  
"You want _me_ to steal this thing? How the –"  
  
"You won't be going alone, Mr. Tippin," Jack interrupted. "This is a two person job. I'm going with you."  
  
Not knowing what else to do, Will laughed. "Okay, tell me what to do."


End file.
